


With Love, From Tokyo

by phosphorous



Series: 18 351 000 meters [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Best Friends to Lovers, Canon Compliant, Gen, Long Distance Friendship, M/M, Maybe slightly AU, Mutual Pining, Non-Reliable Narration, Post-Graduation, University Student!Iwaizumi, aspiring pro-volleyball player!Oikawa, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phosphorous/pseuds/phosphorous
Summary: “Come back soon,” he finds himself mumbling into his shoulder. “It’s going to fucking suck without you, bastard.”Oikawa laughs, a chime of church bells and he pulls Hajime even closer.“You won’t even notice I’m gone, Iwa-chan,” he says. The Tokyo sky is changing from orange to blue, and the sun smiles down at them as it drifts away.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Platonic Everything
Series: 18 351 000 meters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571479
Comments: 20
Kudos: 127





	With Love, From Tokyo

The days leading up to Oikawa’s departure go too fast.

It feels like time is slipping away like dry sand against an open palm as he watches Oikawa shovel through years of belongings, picking and choosing what he wants to take with him to the other side of the world. Hajime helps him zip up the suitcases and his days are perpetually filled with the sound of tape screeching against cardboard. Oikawa, indecisive as ever, has a hard time choosing between a multitude of clothes and insists on taking over a dozen photo albums with him. He plucks down the glow in the dark stars from his ceiling, packs them into bubble wrap and shoves them into a box. One by one, the shitty alien discs go into more boxes, his beloved plushies into another. Hajime tries, but it’s hard to ignore when he folds his white and teal jacket until the _Aoba Johsai VBC_ side is facing up, and gently puts it into his suitcase.

“I don’t want to go,” Oikawa says, quietly. They’re sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, watching his starless ceiling, and it’s almost like they’re fourteen and having sleepovers again. Except it’s not, because Oikawa is too tall and has to prop his legs up on the bed so he isn’t hunched over, Hajime’s head is touching the second leg of the chair by Oikawa’s desk, and their hands are close enough to touch, but not quite. 

“It’s too late for that,” Hajime mumbles. His arms ache, from all the boxes he’d carried to the truck earlier that morning, and he’s sure his neck is going to have a crick in it later. “You made me carry all your shit outside, so if you’re having second thoughts, go have them somewhere else.”

Oikawa’s lips curl up, a sarcastic, barely there grin. “Has anyone ever told you what a supportive friend you are, Iwa-chan?”

“Many times.” Hajime blinks. It’s 6PM, and he should have gone home an hour ago. “You _do_ want to go, and you’re not having any second thoughts.”

“Yeah.” Oikawa finally admits. One of the bulbs in his room has died and the looming table above him casts a shadow onto the side of his face. “I’m just … It’s going to change a lot. Buenos Aires is far, you know.”

_Eighteen thousand three hundred and fifty one kilometers,_ Hajime thinks, on impulse.

“You’ll be fine,” Hajime tells him, because he will be. Oikawa is decent at English, he’s stupidly good at volleyball, the scout who’d gotten him the spot on his current practice team had seemed nice, and even his roommate sounded friendly over email. “It’s okay to be scared, but it’ll be okay eventually.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. Downstairs, there’s the sound of the TV and Takeru happily singing along to the Naruto opening theme, the sound of polite laughter as Oikawa’s mother speaks to someone on the phone, the sound of muffled voices conversing from the living room as Oikawa’s father and his sister playfully argue about something. (It’s probably the pigeon incident from 2003. It’s always the pigeon incident from 2003, when it came to the two of them.) The house is still as alive as Hajime remembers it to be. In a while, he’ll hear Oikawa’s mother call out, “Hajime-kun, be sure to stay for dinner!” and go downstairs to find it as full of life as it has been for the past years of his life. 

It’s just Oikawa’s room that seems to be hollow, the table by his bed bare and his shelf empty of all the photos of his family and friends, his ceiling void of the stars. 

“I’ll call you as often as possible,” Oikawa finally says. When Hajime looks at him, _really_ looks at him, there’s an imprint of the floorboards on his cheek, and his eyes are bright as ever. “So don’t you dare forget me, okay?”

Hajime’s very first memory of his childhood is one where he’s stumbling through his mother’s garden with his bug-catching net and trying to convince Oikawa that going barefoot on the grass wouldn’t kill him. His second memory is watching Oikawa burst into tears because Hajime put a beetle on his hand when he had his eyes closed. 

He remembers splitting strawberry flavored popsicles with Oikawa after school when they were eleven, remembers that Oikawa always got some on his blazer. He remembers being seven and watching Oikawa nail himself in the face with a volleyball, remembers being twelve and seeing Oikawa jump-serve for the first time, seeing his bright grin when it landed within court bounds and the coach looked at him with wide eyes. He remembers being thirteen and wrestling him away from Kageyama. He remembers letting Oikawa lean on him when he injured his knee, remembers watching him grit his teeth when he wasn’t allowed to play. He remembers helping him stick the stupid glow in the dark stars on his ceiling and watch him talk about it for hours on an end even if he didn’t understand a single word of it. 

He remembers the times they’d won a game and he’d feel Oikawa’s fingers bunched up on the fabric behind his jersey before he’s pulled into a bone-crushing hug. He remembers the times they’d lost and he’d feel the sharp sting of Oikawa’s palm on the space between his shoulders, and the promise in his voice when he said, _next time, we won’t lose._

“Don’t be ridiculous, Shittykawa.” There used to be a star right where Hajime is looking right now, in the middle of the make-shift constellation, and unlike the rest of the teal stars, this one used to glow a pretty, muted gold. The words feel too heavy on his tongue when he admits, “I couldn’t forget you if I tried. You’re my best friend, asshole.”

“You’re my best friend too, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa’s knuckles brush against his open palm. He’s smiling, genuine and easy, and a dimple blooms on his left cheek. 

The silence that follows is punctured with laughter from downstairs, quiet but comfortable, and it slips past Hajime like dry sand on an open palm. 

.....

Like a noble idiot, Oikawa insists on driving to the airport with the team. It’s early, around seven, and he shoves himself into the passenger seat of Makki’s van next to Hajime, and loudly announces that he’ll pick the music. When Kyoutani makes a vague noise of disagreement from the second row of seats, Oikawa doesn’t hesitate to point out that _he’s_ the one moving across the globe to a foreign country where they won’t see him again at least for two or three years, and that an hour of listening to Arashi won’t kill anyone. (Mattsun, at the steering wheel, goes a little green when the first song starts blaring out of the speakers.) No one talks about his departure after that, reverting back to the usual banter that came with the team gathering, and it’s almost like they’re on a bus to go to an away game instead. 

Oikawa’s hands are freezing when they brush against Hajime’s, a true tell of how nervous he really is. They’re a little too old for sharing the dual passenger seat of the van, the space between them too small, and for the first time in years, Hajime doesn’t pull his hand away when Oikawa links their pinky fingers together.

At the touch, the world outside seems to come alive, the Tokyo sky bleeding in color, the sound of wheels grinding against the road echoing in his ears, and it suddenly feels like his heart is too big for his chest.

By the time they reach the airport, Hajime finds that he doesn’t really want to let go, and lets Oikawa tug him out of the van with their fingers linked. He’s not sure what that means, and he isn’t sure if he wants to know either. 

Hajime doesn’t cry, not forty five minutes later when he watches Oikawa solemnly advice Takeru to annoy his mother as much as possible. He doesn’t cry when he watches Oikawa hug his parents and his sister and Hajime’s parents and promise to text as soon as he gets reception. He doesn’t cry when Oikawa pulls all the second years (now third years,technically) into a group hug and laughs when Yahaba starts sobbing loud enough to scare a passerby. (“Oikawa-san,” he wails, and even Watari looks a little teary, “I can’t lead them to the nationals. I _suck._ Don’t leave me with them, please.”) He doesn’t cry when Oikawa pinches Mattsun’s cheek and says, “Brighten up, Mattsun. Your eyebrows look weird,” even when Mattsun muffles his watery laugh against Oikawa’s shoulder. He doesn’t cry when Makki misses a beat when doing the stupid handshake they invented in second year because he couldn’t see through his tears. 

He doesn’t cry when Oikawa pulls him into a hug, his fingers bunched up on the fabric of Hajime’s shirt like he used to do with his jersey after a game: doesn’t cry when his fingers involuntarily clench around the material of Oikawa’s coat like he doesn’t want to let go. Instead, he finds that it feels like the time he was thirteen and took a volleyball to the throat from one of Takeru’s stronger friends, and that he really, really wishes he could pause time.

“Come back soon,” he finds himself mumbling into his shoulder. “It’s going to fucking suck without you, bastard.”

Oikawa laughs, a chime of church bells and he pulls Hajime even closer. 

“You won’t even notice I’m gone, Iwa-chan,” he says. The Tokyo sky is changing from orange to blue, and the sun smiles down at them as it drifts away. 

….

On the first Sunday after Oikawa leaves, when Hajime is doing last minute shopping at the store, he ends up picking up a package of milk bread and doesn’t realize what he’s done until he’s standing outside Oikawa’s house and remembers that Oikawa isn’t there anymore. 

_I wonder if they have milk bread in Argentina,_ he thinks, almost like an afterthought, and turns the package in his hands. It’s usually made in blue and white, Oikawa’s favorite colors, but towards the end of November, Tachibana-san starts making them red and white, for festive occasions. Oikawa likes the red packaging because he likes Christmas, and every year, like clockwork, Hajime always buys him one, just in case he forgot to get it for himself. This year, he hadn’t mentioned a word of it, busy preparing to move, most likely, and Hajime had still picked it up for him. He’s just not here to receive it, that’s all.

And it’s stupid, to get hung up on something like that, but _he_ feels stupid standing outside Oikawa’s house with milk bread he doesn’t even like that much, waiting for someone who was on the other side of the world. 

_You should have told him before he left,_ a voice in the back of his head says, and it sounds, strangely, like Makki. _Now you just look like an idiot, in love with someone who won’t return your feelings and is eighteen thousand three hundred and fifty one kilometers away from Tokyo, buying him milk bread like he’s here to thank you for your thoughtfulness._

“Shut up.” He mumbles. He’s had this argument countless times, both with the voice in his head that sounds like Makki and Makki himself, and it always ends the same way: Hajime telling them to shut up and then avoiding it until he does something that reminds him of Oikawa again. 

There’s the sound of the door creaking open.

“Hajime-kun?” It’s Oikawa’s mother, and when Hajime turns, she seems surprised to see him. She looks a lot like Oikawa, her eyes the same shade as his, her hair precisely the same, her smile just as warm. “Is that you? What are you doing here?”

Instinctively, he clutches the milk bread package closer to him, the red and white paper crinkling against his fingers. The sound it makes seems to echo through the deserted street, and her eyes immediately dart from his face to the object in his hands. Neither of them speak for a while, and when she finally looks back at him, her eyes look really, really sad.

“You must miss him quite a lot,” Oikawa-san finally says. The wind ruffles her hair, and she tucks one of the loose strands behind her ear. When he and Oikawa were kids, the two of them would pluck flowers from Hajime’s father’s garden and take turns trying to fix them into Oikawa-san’s hair, because Oikawa thought his mother was the princess of all the flowers. It was so dumb, and Oikawa-san is deathly allergic to pollen, but she always let them do it because it made them happy.

“Do you think,” Hajime starts, and it feels like the blood vessels in his heart are burning in blue flames, like his lungs are inflated too much and digging into the curves of his ribcage, “there’s milk bread in Argentina, Oikawa-san?”

“I don’t know, Hajime-kun,” she replies. She smiles, a little sad and a little sympathetic, and squeezes his shoulder. “You should ask him, I think.”

The walk back home is quiet, save for the sound of his shoes against gravel and the rustle of paper bags. His hands feel too full, even if he’s only carrying one extra bag, and he wishes Oikawa were here to get it off his hands, beam at him, and thank him for the milk bread.

.....

**hey, oikawa**

**do u have milk bread in argentina**

_sent: 06:00PM_

_yeah, it sucks (*´-`)_

_tachibana-san’s is way better_

**_sent: 03:00AM_ **

_i wish you were here to buy me some, iwa-chan ( ◠‿◠ )_

**_sent: 03:12AM_ **

.....

Oikawa lives in a two bedroom apartment with one of the other recruits. Apparently, his landlord is a stick in the mud about painting the walls, so Oikawa can’t paint his ceiling the mix of navy blue, green, teal and purple it used to be in his room in Japan, but it doesn’t stop him from sticking up stars into vague variations of constellations.

“I made this one up,” Oikawa chirps, and even through the phone, he sounds just like he always does. The screen shows a mildly pixelated ceiling, where Oikawa has strategically aimed his phone, and he’s stuck the stars into a messy form of what Hajime guesses is his made-up constellation. “The moving guys roughed up my boxes too much, so most of my stars were broken. I had to ask Leo to help me buy more.”

“There weren’t enough to make Orion?” Hajime asks. It’s 2PM where Oikawa is, the sunlight streaming through his parted curtains and casting shadows onto his face when he flips the camera back so his face is in view, but it’s 2AM for Hajime, the lights turned off in his room save for the green night light above his head. 

“There were, but the space was too small,” Oikawa huffs. Even pixelated, Hajime’s heart warms when he juts his bottom lip out and pouts. “The landlord is so annoying about stuff like this. I’m not even allowed to stick up my posters because the glue might cause the paint to peel off.”

“And? He’s right.” Hajime shifts, giving Oikawa what he hopes is a deadpan look. “You probably have a poster of yourself anyway, weirdo.”

“You’re so _mean_ ,” Oikawa whines, but there’s no bite to it. If anything, he seems happy. “I can’t believe it’s like 2AM there and you still have the energy to jibe at me. Unbelievable.”

“You’re an easy target.” Hajime points out, and lets himself break into a soft, barely there smile when Oikawa sticks his tongue out at him. “And anyway, I’ll be on my deathbed in fifty years and still have enough energy to jibe at you. That’s a promise, Shittykawa.”

“Boo,” Oikawa sulks. “So annoying, Iwa-chan. I can’t even see your face but I know you’re smiling that stupid smile you always get when you’re making fun of me.”

Hajime blinks. “Like I said, you’re an easy target.”

“This is targeted harassment,” Oikawa shoots back. He shifts, presumably rolling over onto his back, and Hajime watches the sunlight shift across his pupils. His hair is sticking up in all directions, his cheek indented with pillow prints, but he seems happy. “You’re leaving for university tomorrow, right?”

“Today, technically.” He should have been sleeping, but he hadn’t wanted to tell Oikawa that when he’d gotten the call. “It’s just the bullet train, so I think I’ll be fine.”

“Mama told me she and dad would go to the station with you and your parents,” Oikawa says. Hajime feels his ears burn bright red at that. It’s always embarrassing, that Oikawa’s family treats him like he’s one of their own and his family treats Oikawa like he’s one of theirs. “Let’s hope she doesn’t cry like your mom did when I left.”

“She still gets teary eyed when it’s Sunday and you don’t come over for breakfast,” Hajime says. It’s been three Sundays since he left and Hajime’s mother still pulls out two mugs instead of one.

“I knew it,” Oikawa says, and instead of sounding smug, he grins warmly. “I’ll call her over the weekend. It’s been too long since we talked about you, anyway.”

“Stop flirting with my mom, dumbass,” Hajime bites out. He’s never understood why Oikawa and his mother get along so well, but he guesses they have a good time complaining about him.

“It’s not my fault she loves me so much, Iwa-chan.” There’s the sound of sheets rustling as Oikawa shifts on his side. His cheeks are squished against his pillow and the broad length of his collarbones shine in the light of the room. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, you should try to make new friends at university.”

“I don’t need _you_ to tell me that.” Hajime mumbles, but it doesn’t have any heat to it.

“I know you don’t.” Oikawa blinks. It’s stupid, how Hajime can still see the mole on the side of his cheek and the individual eyelashes curling when he does so, how his heart feels like it’s been dunked into a vat of hot acid when Oikawa slowly smiles at him. “But I just figured I’d tell you. No one will ever be as cool as I am --”

Hajime tries not to laugh, but he ends up giving in anyway. “You’re so annoying, Oikawa.”

“ -- but I’m sure there’ll be a lesser version of me willing to keep you company for the next four years.” Oikawa finishes, with a drawl. He shifts again, on his back with the laptop too close to his face. “Don’t get too lonely without me, Iwa-chan. And if you _do_ get lonely, just look at the stars on your ceiling and know that the Great Oikawa-san -- ”

The laughter bubbles up again, and distantly, he’s aware that he’ll probably wake his parents up if he laughs too loud.

“You’re trash.” He says, when he isn’t laughing that much. “You’re pretentious, annoying, and you’re trash.”

“I know.” Oikawa’s eyes are unfairly bright, even through a laptop screen, and it’s stupid how Hajime’s heart skips a beat. “I’m the worst, but you’re laughing, so that counts for something, right?”

He wants to reach through the laptop and brush the hair out of Oikawa’s eyes, to run his fingers along the slope of his jawline, to run a thumb over his smiling lips. 

Instead, he flicks the spot on the screen where Oikawa’s forehead is, and says, “I’m laughing _at_ you, dumbass, it’s totally different,” and lets Oikawa derail the conversation elsewhere.

When Oikawa hangs up, saying something about volleyball practice and a grocery run, it’s a little after 3:30AM, and Hajime knows he’s going to look like a zombie when he goes to the train station later. Still, he stands on his bed, trying to make as little noise as possible, and pulls down the stars in the constellation on his ceiling. They glow a bright teal on his palm when he gathers them all up, and one of them is a warm yellow.

_In case I get lonely_ , he thinks, putting them into the pocket of his backpack, _I’ll always have you._

He falls asleep watching a starless ceiling, and wonders if Oikawa felt this way the night before he left. When morning comes, he finds that there’s a stubborn star clutched in his palm, glowing a muted teal, smiling softly at him, like it’s saying _good morning, Iwa-chan_.


End file.
